


Letters To Her

by LastShadowPuppet



Series: 'cause our time's gone inside out I don't make time for holy rollers Mmm, there's only you I need [2]
Category: British Singers RPF, Indie Music RPF, Kaiser Chiefs, The Voice (UK) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: AU, Angst, Depression, Destiny, F/M, Guilt, Intense, Jealousy, Letter form, Possessive Behaviour, Romance, Social Anxiety, Soulmates, Teacher-student relationship (past), a relationship which destroys you forever, forbidden feelings, lots of reflection, more like a series of angsty drabbles, not sure if this can be classified as a story, older man- younger woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:33:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4601769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastShadowPuppet/pseuds/LastShadowPuppet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And I know you won't ever read these but I'll stil write."- Ricky Wilson/OC, Companion Piece to "Bluebirds"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Letter #1

Dear Clara, 

do you ever get those urges? I mean when you just wake up in the morning and your entire body is filled with this sensation that you need to just do  _something._ And you feel as if you will just  _fucking_ die if you don't, almost like a ticking time-bomb within you. Do you know that feeling, little bird?

Well... knowing you I suppose not. You have always been so calm and collected and settled. You accept things the way they come at you and whatever cardhand life or whatever decides which  _fucking_ path we take deals you, you are more than happy to accept it. No, I don't suppose you are ever under the influence of that euphoria to do something, to change something. 

We are different in that way. Because I often get those urges. That determination to get up, and do, and change. I got one of those urges this morning. I woke up and my body felt as if it was on fire and I couldn't lie still for another second in fear that I would combust on the spot. And I know that it may be hard for you to follow that, not ever having experienced the feeling but just bear with me. 

I woke up and I felt that I needed to do something. And then I got up. And my body felt as if it was on auto-pilot. My feet carried me to my office and my hands grabbed sheets of paper and a pen before I found myself sitting down at the kitchen table with the early morning sun shining on the white and exposed surface of the paper I now write to you on.

This is how I find myself writing this letter addressed to you...  _only you._

And it's strange because when I get these urges I don't usually write. No... my urges always entail something much more dynamic and active, such as moving a hundred miles in the drop of a hat. Not ever anything as simple as just sitting down and writing some words. And maybe I have never gotten these urges because I have never been good with words. As a toddler I was unquiet sitting in my mother's lap while she read  _Winnie The Pooh_ to me, much rather preferring to run around in the small garden of my parents' semi-detached house in the outskirts of Leeds. In school, my essays never scored higher than a C because of my poor grammar and difficulty to express myself. And writing letters to parents about their children's behaviour in my class was always my least favourite chore as a teacher.

I have never enjoyed writing.  

But you know that. 

You know that expressing what I feel with words has never been my forte. I will often find that words are not enough to capture what I feel or I will say something and on later reflection realise that what I have said is just not what I meant. And I despise having to peel back all the layers of what a sentence-  _a mere word-_ could possibly mean. 

You know that best of all. 

So I find myself in slight disbelief that I'm sitting here on an early Saturday Morning when I should probably be out jogging or maybe looking at antique furniture with Leslie and instead I'm filling page after page with my crankly writing. And I don't plan on stopping, not until I have written everything I want. 

I have decided that I'll write these letters to you. I think this might be my way to realize that we won't ever have a life together- at least not in this one- and that I won't one day open the door to find you standing at my doorstep. And that you would never take me would I come for you.

And maybe this is just my way to get some closure.

It surprises me that this is the way it will end.

With haphazard words scrawled in black ink on white paper. 

I have loved you-  _deeply, all-consumingly, maddeningly-_ for fifteen years and I never expected such a calm and passive end. 

But you have always made me do things I never expected of myself. Like writing or falling in love with my student.

So maybe writing these letters is not that surprising after all.

And I know you won't read these but I'll still write. 

_Ricky_

* * *

 

  **AN- So I couldn't leave this fandom alone for too long. The idea of this companion piece was like a siren call which I couldn't ignore.**

**The format is very different to what I have written beforehand. Instead of having a fully-fledged story I am giving Ricky's thoughts and view of teh events in the main story in form of letters. I haven't ever written something like this before being very conservative in my writing style and am quite nervous about how people will take to it.**

**The next "letter" is in the works and should be out by the middle of this week.**

**Enjoy, Maria**


	2. Letter #2

Dear Clara,

I'm in my hotel room at the moment. It's just another room of one hundred identical ones in this establishment with the same, basic furniture and the same melancholic air of emptiness. I'm sitting at the small, round, wooden table of the kitchenette, my roomservice meal turning cold before me while writing to you. And I wonder what you are doing. It's eight o' clock on a Wednesday evening and perhaps you have finished dinner and are putting the dishes away while your... husband (you can't imagine how difficult it was for me to write this) is turning on the telly to your favourite programme.

There was this girl today at auditions. And I'm assuming that you know that I'm currently working as a coach on the BBC programme 'The Voice' which is similar to X Factor. But it doesn't really matter, does it? I can't imagine that that is something which interests you or which you watch on a Saturday evening. I'm assuming you might have seen me on the trailer for the show while watching BBC One.

There was this girl at auditions today.

You have to know one thing about the show. The people who audition for it have very strong, Christina-Aguilera-style voices and I will spend the day listening to powerhouses singing their way through inspirational songs, occasionally choosing a few to go on my team.

But today out of nowhere an audition began and I didn't hear a high-belted or whisteling note but instead the strum of a harp followed by a soft and sweet voice. And as soon as I heard that- after taking a few seconds to recover from the shock- I immediately pressed my button.

There was this girl today. Her voice wasn't impressive and outstanding in its techinque and its ability to do something. Her voice was low and sweet and at times she was out of tune. She was perfectly imperfect.

And she looked like a pixie. Like one of those cute, mythical beings you read about in a fairytale book. Those beings that appear innocent but enchant you in the blink of an eye.

She was playing a harp cover of a current chart hit, something you would never expect to be covered by such an instrument and the words she sang were diametrically opposed to the haunting melody. And she was perfect.

And I was doe-eyed in my fascination.

And I think I may have half fallen in love with her half-way through the song.

And perhaps I'm just writing this to you to make you feel as bad and jealous as I felt the day I found out you married Stevie.

This girl at the auditions; she reminded me of you. And she transported me back to that summer fifteen or sixteen years ago when Nick and me crept into the music hall at the Philharmonica and you started to play and I was a goner.

I don't think I ever told you this and you won't ever know that Nick had to literally shake me out of my paralyzed stupor. Because I had never heard anything as beautiful or seen anything as wonderful as you playing that 'Asleep ' cover.

Nick, the bastard, would later tease me that I wasn't even breathing there for a moment.

And today I was seeing you again on that stage. Sweet and innocent, with a voice that doesn't sound like it even belongs to this world. And she was the closest thing that I have gotten of you in the last decade. And I felt that if I got this girl on my team that maybe I could have you. In some weird, metaphorical sense. But I couldn't even speak to her, I was so stirred up and she ended up choosing another coach. And again I was left in the wake of your abandonment.

I think it more than likely that I have still not gotten over the fact that you are gone.

And I'm pretty sure that it was when I heard you sing and play for the first time that I was completely gone. Because before that I only suspected that there was nothing as wonderful in the world and there wouldn't ever be again- at least not for me- as you. And when I heard you sing I was a goner.

Perhaps had I never witnessed your audition I would eventually have overcome these emotions you invoked in me. Maybe I would have gone on normally, continued my relationship with that girl Camilla and watched you finish secondary school, feeling perhaps only a muted pang in my chest watching you leave with that boy.

But you damned us when you played that afternoon at the Philharmonica and I damned us by listening.

At times I find myself resenting that driving force which decides our lives' path for scheduling my practice and you audition on the same day. Or for giving me the idea to spend my break in the music hall.

And at times I think that I was not meant to fall in love with you.

And then I remember that my whole life seemed to be prepared for exactly that.

_Ricky_


	3. Letter #3

Dear Clara, 

I saw you today. 

I wish I could backtrack saying this but I have decided to set a rule to myself while writing these letters: I am not allowed to cross out a single word I write. So you know that everything written here is honest and genuine. 

But I still wish I hadn't started the letter like this. Because it makes me sound like one of those weird and obsessive stalkers and despite my infatuation with you being rather intense I pride myself in the fact that I'm still rational enough not to start tormenting you when my presence in your life is clearly superflous. 

I saw you today because the Kaiser Chiefs are currently on a UK tour and we are playing tomorrow in Edinburgh. I'm not following you and lurking in dark corners to catch a single glimpse of you. I didn't even know you lived in Edinburgh. As far as I knew you had moved back to the south that you had always loved so much and were there.

But I try not to think too much about you and your life. And the life that we could have had. 

I was sitting in a small café just off the main square where Saturday market was. The coffee in the B&B me and the lads are staying at is shite and you know how much I need to have a proper cup of strong coffee to get through the day. So having decided to discard the dirty water and looking for a better alternative is how I found myself in a small, quaint coffeehouse, sitting at a small, round table by the front window. 

I was looking through my emails and occasionally looking up and out the window to observe the residents of Edinburgh at the Saturday morning chores. And during one of those moments when I looked up and in a flurry of chestnut brown, you walked back into my life. 

It's been a decade since I last saw you and you have matured and grown into a woman but to my eyes you were still the innocent, lovely girl that I fell in love with.

You looked happy. 

And as loathe as I am to admit it, I was crestfallen. And I know I sound like a horrible and selfish person but I was hoping that you weren't happy. I would have had an excuse to swoop in then and take you back into my life and away from your husband. 

But you looked happy and I was left sitting watching you walk past me. 

Did you know I was watching you? 

I don't think you did. You never looked so carefree and relaxed when in my presence. You were huffing beneath the weight of your full grocery bag and your steps were hurried to keep pace with the long stride of your husband. But you had this small, little smile on your beautiful face. 

And you were content. 

And it made me realise that I would have never made you as content as he does.

You have always been too broken for the hectic and dynamic life that you would have had with me. You would have tried to endure it for a time, for me. But as time would have gone on it would have become harder and harder. And I wouldn't have done anything against it. Because I'm selfish and horrible. And I couldn't give up either you or my career. So I would have let you suffer, because loosing either would have made me suffer.

It's funny that the one thing that made me love you is also the one thing that takes you away from me. Because you are broken and scarred but to my eyes you are the most wonderous thing in this world. And perhaps my realization of the discrepancy between my view of you and the reality is what makes me still love you despite not seeing you after fifteen years.

I let you walk away. I could have stopped you and run out of the coffeehouse and called your name. And you would have looked back and perhaps even walked to me. 

But I didn't. I stayed sitting there alone at my small round table watching you, even long after you had disappeared from sight. 

You looked happy. 

And perhaps I'm turning less selfish in my old age. 

And perhaps if you asked me now I would throw everything away and come back with you to Leeds. 

_Ricky_


	4. Letter #4

Dear Clara, 

I wonder whether you listen to my songs. I mean, the  _Kaiser Chiefs_ make music in line with what you enjoyed listening to in your youth, you know  _Alternative_ and  _Indie Rock_. But perhaps you purposely don't listen to us, because you know it's my band and after everything that happened you can't bear to listen to it.

It would be a shame that because it would mean that my whole career up until now has been rendered void and senseless. Because often, such as when I became incredibly frustrated with the merchandising direction our label wanted to thrust upon us, I found that writing songs was the only thing that made sense in my profession. And I wrote songs because they were a way to say the things to you that I could never say because of our situation and because you wouldn't listen.

Do you remember how it started? You wouldn't listen to me on the phone and I wrote about you and me and the girl I was with at the time. And you have, you simply _have_ to know that  _Everyday I love you less and less_ is a song for you. Because you wouldn't listen when I wanted to tell you that I had stopped loving that girl for you-  _because of you-_ and that you were driving me mad. 

You still drive me mad.

I'm pretty sure you will never stop driving me mad.

And I don't think I ever want you to.

I'll continue writing these songs for you. I suppose it has become this sort of perverse game where I write these songs for you, about you, and I hope that you will listen to them in your small semi-detached in the outskirts of Edinburgh. And at times I hope that your husband is sitting right beside you to feel you stiffen when I blatantly sing about you. And for him to know that despite everything, despite not having you by my side, we will always have a history. And no matter how happy and _fucking_ content he makes you feel, you were once mine. 

And I still feel you are mine, no matter how delusional and mad I might sound claiming that. 

Because I can't believe that the best thing to happen to me in my life could be wrong. And I believe that the only thing we got wrong was timing. And that if there is such a thing- that we are  _fucking_ soulmates. Because if we- _humans-_  are made of something-  _anything-_ then you and me are the same. 

There are not a lot of things in my life I know. 

But of that I am  _fucking_ certain. 

And though I was not conscious of it, I have known it since I turned around and you were standing there in that small, bright orange room on that Monday morning mid-term and I saw you for the first time. 

I can still remember that. 

I didn't think you were beautiful when I first saw you. Did you know that? 

In the first moment, you were as plain and uninteresting to me as anyother of my female students up until then had been to me. 

But something in your face... _It called to me._ And I ran out of that room, with my heart beating quicker than ever before, as if I was being chased. 

But you still soon became the loveliest thing that I have ever seen or will ever see in my life.

And I'm pretty sure I will still grow mad with tenderness at the mere sight of you until the day I die.

 _Ricky_  

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey,  
> I hope you enjoy this letter. Please tell me what you think.  
> Big shout out to hitandhope who posted a lovely Ricky/anna fic. Check it out it's great


	5. Letter #5

Dear Clara, 

Do you remember that girl I told you about? The one at auditions earlier this year? The one that reminded me so much of you? 

Well, my first season at the BBC show has ended a few months ago and she was eliminated a long time ago by that other coach who chose her. And I've gone on to forget about her, only recalling her as a small reminder of you. My mates have pulled me leg over my 'doey' eyes during her audition. And as soon as she was eliminated she went back to Edinburgh and as soon as she walked out of my life I forgot about her. 

But yesterday, it was my last day in Edinburgh and I was sitting at that little café, hoping that you would walk past once more, she walked past the window in front of me. And differently from you, she saw me and she stopped. I felt my lips twisting into a small smirk. She was standing there- all blue eyed wonder with a ruby red scarf-  _sort of like the ribbon you used to wear in your head-_ around her neck, looking at me through the glass. And I couldn't help but let my face break out into a large smile. I raised my hand and weakly waved. 

There wasn't a Stevie with her and she didn't seem quietly content without me in her life. She came into the café and she sat down with me at the table with a cup of tea and we talked in hushed voices as if we were discussing a secret plan that no one could know about. 

She was finishing her cup of tea when she told me that she regretted it. And I asked her what 'it' was. She answered that she regretted chosing that other coach instead of me. And at the confession I closed my eyes and her accent smoothed out in your southern drawl, saying you regretted not chosing me. I asked her why she didn't choose me and she answered that it was because during the auditions when it seemed to be just me and her, I had made her feel and it had  _fucking terrified_ her. Did I terrify you? 

And she asked me whether I felt it. Whether she had made me feel. And I nodded. 

_No other choice, I heard a voice and fell in love with you_

And then she put her hand, small and calloused and not meant to be beautiful, on mine. I interlaced my fingers with hers. 

Later in my hotel room, it was very different from that night in your little single bed, surrounded by _The Smiths_ posters fifteen years ago. It was the first time my mind had been able to make a clear distinction between you two.

That night, fifteen years ago, every inch of my skin had felt as if it was on fire. That night had been all urgency and want and desperation, and burning everything I could of you into me because I knew that these memories would become my life's oasis. It had been winding my hand through your silky hair and feeling it would tightly on my wrist- something I had dreamt about for so long- it had been trying to keep our moans quiet because your mother was downstairs. It was kissing your soft skin and tasting cream. It was pain and love and torture and agony and bliss. 

With Anna- her name is Anna, I'm not sure I have mentioned that before- it was slower. It was open-mouthed kisses on every part of the body and warm breathes against skin cooled from the approaching autumn outside. And it was warm, tear-stained cheeks. And tiny calloused hands holding onto my head tightly as if I was not real. And it was pure and unadultered adoration- this time  _aimed at me._  

These two nights just weren't the same in any way.

I'm not one for the young girls. And I know you may be sceptical of me saying this, since the two women who have made me feel the most in this life are young and on the cusp of adulthood, but I am not one of those creepy, slimy man who actively searches out young girls. The women I've had relationships with have been my age, or perhaps a year or two younger. I don't usually understand the appeal that many men see in younger woman.

And then you and Anna McLuckie appear and my mind is blown clear off.

And both of you have managed to destroy relationships that were good for me and healthy.

Leslie, my girlfriend or better _ex-girlfriend_ of five years saw Anna's audition, and she looked at me with her eyes teary and filled with disgust and told me that I was a disgusting, sick man and that Anna was just a child. 

And she is... Anna turned eighteen two weeks ago. And at least when i met you, I was a twenty-six year old man, not some bitter and unhappy thirty-seven year old going after teenage girls.

The nights weren't completely different, now that I think about it.

I called for you both times.

 _Ricky_  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No love for the last chapter. But that's alright, Here's a new letter for you and I hope you guys will tell me what you thought about this one.  
> Love, Maria.  
> P.S.:shoutout to hitandhope who posted an amazing Ricky/anna fiction. I hope you update it soon. You have me hooked on it.


	6. Letter #6

Dear Clara, 

I talked to Stevie today. And perhaps that might come as a shock to you or your husband will have told you about our encounter in a small café in the midst of Picadilly Circus .

Or perhaps you will never find out because he won't mention it and you will never read this. 

It was a surprise to me. It was him who recognized me but to be fair I had my back turned to him at that moment ordering a black coffee at the self-service counter. But as soon as I heard that Scottish drawl of my name, my spine stiffened and before I turned around I knew that it would be that boy. 

He's changed over time.

He used to have that cheeky, boyish face back then and was wiry and tall. He doesn't seem to have grown from his height as a teenager and his hairline is receding and there are crowsfeet at the corner of his eyes that shouldn't be there for someone who is not yet 35 years old. And I have to say that I felt a certain degree of superiority that me with my 50 years of age still look better than your husband. 

But it still doesn't change the fact that you are with him and not me. And I shouldn't feel any superiority because I doubt that you would leave your husband just because of his looks. You have never been superficial like that. 

He was standing before me, eyeing me carefully as if to make sure that I was really who he suspected me to be. I squared my shoulders, prepared for the animosity that was surely to come from him and from me, but then... he surprised me. Because his rigid posture slackened and his face relaxed and his lips quirked into a small, half-smile and he greeted me with a not cold or angry or poisonous: "Hello Mr. Wilson." 

I have hated this man for two decades. I have been jealous of him because he has everything that I want. And I want to be him- crowsfeet at thirty-five and receding hairline and menial white-collar-office-job and all- because he gets to come home to you every evening. I have hated him ever since I first saw him with you because I think deep,  _deep_ down I have always known that he would take you from me. 

But then we sat and drank our black coffees and he talked to me and I found myself listening. And I had expected to listen to every word of his dripping with disdain for me and for him to utter accusation after accusation at me.

But he didn't.

I suppose I might have imagined once or twice or thrice what our meeting would look like. You know if we ever happened to chance upon one another on the street. And it wasn't what I thought.

The two of you are quite good at that. At not fulfilling my expectations. 

Because before our meeting in London, I had always imagined re-encountering you one day. And in my mind, it would have been awkward. Because I would be disappointed. Because you couldn't possibly be as wonderful as I had made you to be in my mind. And you would fall short of my expectations and we would eventually settle into the cold and uncomfortable silence of two individuals who had meant something to each other once but with the distance have become strangers.

And yet it wasn't like that. Damn you, but it wasn't like that. Because with the first smile you flashed at me- _soft eyes and a flutter of your lashes-_ I knew that you were still Clara- _my Clara-_ and that we wouldn't ever be like that. That we wouldn't ever not recognize each other. 

And your husband, instead of animosity and accusations, it was understanding and acceptance. And I suppose it's not that hard to understand why you might love him.

He told me that you graduated top of your year at medical school. He told me that you worked as a pediatrician. He told me that you and your mother had been getting closer over the years.

He showed me the picture of your beautiful two-year-old daughter. And I could feel him looking at me compassionately when he saw me looking down at the picture of you and your little girl and I felt as if I was dying with longing because she should have been _mine._

_You should have been mine._

When we parted he confessed that he had gone to the headmaster and informed him of what had occured between us. I think I knew that. Despite the lack of consequences, which my former employer might have seen as arbitrary considering I had resigned from my post and would never teach again.

And I asked him if you knew. And his look at me told me everything he needed to know.

I think he feels as if it is what holds you to him. Because you have that misguided feeling of gratitude that your best friend was loyal to you and weighed your friendship as more important than his moral sense of righteousness.

 You don't know. And I don't think you ever will. 

He won't tell you for fear that you will leave him. 

I won't tell you.

I haven't the heart to tell you that the last twenty years of your life have been a lie.

_Ricky_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So new chapter. Shout out to my friend hitandhope who updated her fantastic Ricky/Anna Fic. Checking it out is highly advised!   
> So this is the penultimate letter and I suppose I might have stirred a bit of a polemic topic here. Do you think what Ricky is doing is right? Knowing that Clara might be staying with Stevie due to a misguided sense of gratitude and not telling her about it? What do you think about this and the whole meeting between the two men?


	7. Letter #7

Dear Clara, 

I talked about you today. With Anna. 

She is visiting me in Falmouth for the week and this morning when we woke up and were lying in bed just holding each other she asked me about you. She didn't know you before. It's not like she asked 'Tell me about Clara?'. She asked me who you were. I called your name the first time we slept together. And apparently I have the annoying habit of talking in my sleep and she's a bit of an insomniac. 

My hand was playing with the short hair at her nape but when she asked me about you my fingers stilled. And I didn't know how to answer her question. Not because I didn't want to or because talking about you wounded me to a great extent but because I genuinely didn't know what to say when she asked me who you were. 

I could have told her about our history. The fact that I'd met you the first time when you were fifteen and I was your art teacher and that I'd felt as if something had finally fallen into place after my whole life when I first laid eyes on you. Or I could have told her about the fact that you were this small, delicate, southern girl who was so painfully shy and didn't say more than three words in the first six months of our acquaintance. I could have shown her that poorly drawn robot that you drew-  _I can't believe I still keep that-_ or how you fucking enchanted me with that harp of yours. 

But all that still didn't answer the question who you were. And I could have gone on talking and talking about you and my feelings and my wants and my needs. And it still wouldn't have answered Anna's question. 

And you know that's what I hate about words. They oversimplify. They are not enough. Because no matter which word or words I used: nothing could describe you accurately. No mere worldly word could ever do justice to what was between us.

And no word could accurately portray how you ruined my life. And perhaps that is what I should have told Anna. I should have told her that you were the girl who ruined my life. Because it's true. You did. Merely by existing.

The power you have still frightens me.

But I didn't tell her that. I kept silent and my fingers started twirling her soft, short hair again. And I simply held her and she kissed me. And we held each other. 

And I think I'm in love with her. 

She is currently taking a shower and I can hear her singing a 'Radiohead' song in that soft, clear voice of hers. And I can't help the smile my lips are twisting into and as I'm writing to you I'm pretty sure I'm in love with her. 

Or as in love with her as I'll ever be again with someone. 

I suppose it's sort of the way that you must love Stevie-  _I'm sure that I still come first in your regard, I have to, you do-_ the whole thing of finding someone who is close, just so  _fucking_ close. Someone who isn't that far away and unattainable. Someone can you touch and feel and love. 

And Anna... well you couldn't get much closer. 

This will be my last letter for a while. I don't know when I will write again,  _if_  I will write again. 

But I don't suppose that makes a difference for you does it now, little bird? It's not as if I will ever post these and you will ever receive them and you will  _ever_ read them. 

And I have gotten attached because the thought of these letters gathering dust in my drawers makes me sad.

I love Anna.

I love  _you._

 _Ricky_   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok... Officially last letter. I'm almost crying. Scratch the almost. I'm crying.   
> I don't know when or whether I'm going to post again in this 'verse. I would really like too. Like do an alternate universe type of thing to explore whether if circumstances had been different Ricky/Clara would have endured.   
> But I'm sort of a masochist and a bit of a sucker for tragic stories and I kind of like leaving the whole 'soulmates but totally wrong timing which screwed with their lives' thing to sick in a bit.   
> I would like to thank all of you who read and commented and kudo'ed the story. Your support kept me writing.   
> And if you need some good Ricky angst: I can only suggest hitandhope's fic.   
> Love, Maria


End file.
